[The things she feels are complicated. That's no surprise. It's a complicated thing, this poem he wrote, even though it's made of words that he used to think were too simple to turn into poetry. I know you don't remember things like that rings ominous deep down to his bones, moreso because he doesn't remember what it means and is terrified that she'll remember before he does, leaving him unable to help.]
[There are other hard things in the poem. Callouts, kind of, but not really — things that are true about her, that he must have written because he knew and cared enough to put them down on paper, because they're things he loves about her, too. All the dips and peaks, lights and shadows.]
[All the complicated things she's feeling right now, he loves those too. They're part of her, so he loves them. As she rides the wave, down and then all the way up again, he leans against her gently, shoulder against hers just to feel the contact and the temperature of her body by his side.]
[He does and doesn't expect the kiss. Maybe more accurate would be to say he feels like any moment could metamorphosize into a kiss, and this one seems especially like a kissing moment. So she takes his chin in her hand, and he moves in at the same time she does, not surprised, not ready either, just there with her, following her lead.]
[His hand buries in her hair, fingers curving automatically to cradle the curve of her skull. They kiss, and it's like the first time plus the time after he gave her the poem, neither of which he remembers clearly, both of which he can grasp the feeling of with perfect clarity. Two types of tenderness, slightly different. This time is both.]
no subject
[There are other hard things in the poem. Callouts, kind of, but not really — things that are true about her, that he must have written because he knew and cared enough to put them down on paper, because they're things he loves about her, too. All the dips and peaks, lights and shadows.]
[All the complicated things she's feeling right now, he loves those too. They're part of her, so he loves them. As she rides the wave, down and then all the way up again, he leans against her gently, shoulder against hers just to feel the contact and the temperature of her body by his side.]
[He does and doesn't expect the kiss. Maybe more accurate would be to say he feels like any moment could metamorphosize into a kiss, and this one seems especially like a kissing moment. So she takes his chin in her hand, and he moves in at the same time she does, not surprised, not ready either, just there with her, following her lead.]
[His hand buries in her hair, fingers curving automatically to cradle the curve of her skull. They kiss, and it's like the first time plus the time after he gave her the poem, neither of which he remembers clearly, both of which he can grasp the feeling of with perfect clarity. Two types of tenderness, slightly different. This time is both.]